


...In the Wall

by Servetolive



Category: KMFDM
Genre: Boys Kissing, Cute, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 03:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7874719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servetolive/pseuds/Servetolive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, in 1985, just after a show in West Berlin, En Esch exploited Sascha Konietzko’s innate shyness and equipped it for personal gain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...In the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Adorable "spin-the-bottle" type story I wrote forever ago and forgot about because I thought it was gay. Then I re-read it and was like, "omg this shit ain't bad." So here it is. :D

Before there was a formidable stage presence, a gimmicky-look and a reputation behind which he could conceal himself, Sascha was known to be almost painfully shy.

That hasn’t changed in decades, really; it’s in his nature.  His colleagues teased him in school—albeit in a charming, harmless way—and indeed, his discretion and humility caught the attention of girls much more outgoing than he, all who found the polite greetings and well-wishings; the diplomatic and informed manner by which he opened his mouth, if ever, quite irresistible to predatory creatures.  There was never an anguished need to wiggle his way out of chatty social situations for which he had no taste for, because he never said anything wrong, and never needed to say much at all.

Before the sunglasses and the megaphone, that’s how he dealt with with it: professionalism, decency, a light and guarded tug at the corners of his thin and pouty lips, as if he might second guess his decision to  smile at any moment. He is decisively undemanding to those who speak to him, which gives them plenty of opportunity to inflate themselves and feel like they have molded the environment—and him—to their likeness.

It’s a decent quality, a strength. A decent strength. At least, long before being forced by others to confront it, Sascha thought so himself.

 

\--

One night, in 1985, just after a show in West Berlin, En Esch exploited Sascha Konietzko’s innate shyness and equipped it for personal gain.

This was perhaps a few years before Sascha had learned a hard lesson about those around him on their brutish underground scene and their perception of his amiability and physical likeness. He wasn’t yet covering himself up with leather and denim and shielding his bird-chest from onlookers, fans, colleagues and groupies alike with his brand emblazoned across his chest. He still played the bass on stage with wife beaters that hung low enough to expose his milky flanks or breathable cotton that would flatten against the contours of his ribs and nipples when moist with sweat. Sometimes, he would play in those hot, tense, sexually and soul-charged venues with no shirt at all. Decades later, a middle-aged Sascha would think back on this and the vulgar, condescending pushiness with which scene girls approached him, and admit a Victorian sense of scandalization.

Groupies and indiscriminate sex weren’t really his thing. Most of the time, he preferred to have standards and meaningful one-night stands or get togethers with a girl who he deemed intelligent enough to carry his genes. And, in _private._ His mother had always told him: “Can you imagine your daughter taking after her? No? Then don’t sleep with her.” Maybe she didn’t perhaps mean _every_ girl he slept with, but it was a sensible thing to apply to all situations.

There was a strange sort of indignation towards him that wafted through the camaraderie of his circle, and it created a tiring, intricate dance of them trying to expose him as one made of flesh and blood—like them. It worked a few times, and an older Sascha would find it pitiable that he fucked every now and again just so that his friends wouldn’t feel insecure.

At that time in ’85, Sascha hadn’t yet found two smart-sounding ‘I’ words that identified with that undercurrent, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind in the moment.  They-he, Esch, a journeyman guitarist, as well as the drummer from another band they had played with that night, and four concert girls decked out in full, mid-Eighties Goth livery—were up against the wall of a pub, just a block from where they had just played.  They were in a sort of huddle. Sascha was the only one actually leaning against it, laughing, one long, pant-gloved leg stretched out and the other tucked beneath him.  Two of the girls sat adjacent to him, away from the wall with their legs crossed, while Esch squatted—still shirtless, in torn jeans, faux gold bangles hanging off of his wrists and ankles—telling an apparently hilarious story about him being in desparate need of a toilet during an orchestra performance of Wagner when he was young. The rest of the entourage formed its own circle right up against them, and were having a separate discussion.

“And so, and so… well, you’ve all been to symphony, yeah? Well you know, percussion has to stand in the back the entire time, except for the timpani. I was on timpani during _Flight of the Valkyries_ , and we’re made to sit on this hard stool. I would have been okay standing,” and here, Esch reenacted movements associated with unresolved diarrhea, and was rewarded with a trickle of laughter. “I swear, I was squeezing my cheeks so hard against it—“

The girl closest to Sascha, and his interest for the night, scrunched the bridge of her nose up in disgust, but laughed anyway.  “Ewww,” she hiss-laughed during Esch’s animated narration. Her friend more or less mimicked her.

Sascha burst into laughter again.  The frayed ends of his hair kept catching on the granules of brick behind him as he leaned his head back, but he didn’t care.  He didn’t care that it was his laughs that were echoing across the street and bouncing off of buildings for once, either.  He was having a good time.  He was high; the spiral-haired girl next to him provided the high quality weed.  He wished Raymond hadn’t fucked off to the place they were crashing to be alone with his needle. He might’ve enjoyed the company. Sascha certainly would have pressed the use of English so that he wouldn’t have felt left out.

Esch finished his disgusting-yet-funny story eventually, with him accidentally “letting a little bit go—not enough to be _really_ fucked, but enough for my section to look around, sniffing the air while we broke down the instruments!”

Sascha was in a state of nervous collapse by that time; his laughter no longer had sound, but he was slapping his hand on the concrete next to him while the girls had also abandoned their proper German female inhibitions against the toilet humor and joined him in earnest.

“And now,” Esch said, his eyes widening to show the whites of his eyes nearly devouring those tiny pupils of his. He sounded like the emcee of a magic show as he slowly bent one knee towards the girls and brought both of his index fingers together. “To thank me for telling this magnificent story, you girls must kiss.”

Sascha himself thought this was a wonderful idea, and a perfect segue into the rest of the night. He didn’t say anything in agreement, because again, he did not like to be pushy, but he was pretty sure that when he turned to visit the girls’ reactions, his face betrayed his interest.

“After _that_ story _?_ ” The other one, a dirty blonde with bright red lipstick that didn’t quite match her ensemble, squinted her eyes.

“Of course! When else? Wasn’t it a good story, Sascha?” Sascha nodded dumbly, nearly biting his lips in a smile, with a chuckle none too far down his throat. He was enjoying Esch’s sideshow.

Sascha observed that Weed-Provider-Girl’s friend was more nervous about the prospect than she was. To answer Esch’s challenge, they quickly pecked on the lips.  Esch rolled his crazy eyes around his head and threw his hands up, half-making to leave. His scheme backfired. Sascha found it just too funny.

“Come _on_! What was that?!”

By this time, the rest of the group had created a second layer to the huddle.  The drummer said, “Okay, I’m more interested in what’s going on over here,” after the girls had kissed.  He stood up and walked to kneel behind Esch, where he had the best view, and the others followed.

“What are you all _doing_ here?” Another girl quipped scandalously.

“Okay, okay,” Weed-Girl held her hands up, one with a cigarette tucked between her fingers, about to make a proposition. Sascha plucked it from her hand and lit it. She then busied herself by taking out another one and lighting it.

But it was Esch’s show, and he did not allow her to begin a negotiation.

“If you guys kiss, I’ll give you this,” Esch began. “Me and Sascha will make out.”

The huddle exploded. Sascha said the first word he’d said in twenty minutes.

“ _What?”_

The drummer who had made such a fuss immediately spun on his heel away amidst the orgy of oohs and aahhs and shock. “Augh, fuck!” But he sat right back down, because there was a lesbian make out session at the gates there. Sascha immediately set to rapidly shaking his head no, albeit with a grin on his face that he would later characterize as stupid.

It was embarrassment, really, that produced the smile, and it was made worse by the incessant noise of enthusiasm that closed in around them, in a way, trapping Sascha and pressing him against the brick wall with Esch enclosing. In retrospect, Sascha would acknowledge that it was a maneuver well-played. He sometimes liked no more than to be one of the onlooking crowd instead of the subject, like the silent lens of his camera. In large group settings as such, he would occasionally be forgotten by the wild roar that Esch created around him, and that would enable him to make his escape with either the girl or narcotic of his choice.

Esch was a predator, and he enjoyed creating his hunting grounds for stubborn prey.

“Okay, we’ll do it!” The dominant girl said, and in that manner, Sascha’s future—the next ten minutes of it at least, but the future nonetheless—had been decided for him.

“No, no no no—“ It was like a bear claw trap.  The more Sascha pressed back up against the wall and shook his head, the more imposing and demanding the air and those who breathed it around him became. The more he smiled, too.

“Come on now.” Esch scooted up to Sascha, wagging his long, alligator tongue at him and puckering his wiry lips. There was a gap in the life of the crowd that allowed him to deliver his next line for all to hear, to complete the destruction of Sascha’s dignity for the night. “I’ll do you nicely.” More cheers and daring whoops.

The enclosing tongue threatened Sascha again, and under the hotness of his cheeks, he pressed his lips together tightly, still smiling.  Of course, one of these assholes would be the one to point out that he was blushing hysterically like a virgin, not just on his face, but on his shoulders and chest.

A decade and some later, they would teach kids in school about abstinence and the power to say “no” to any situation, even one as harmless as a German punk version of spin the bottle. Sascha would maintain to himself for the rest of his life that there was no possible way out of that particular debacle. Well, there was. Don’t go out with Esch.

His meek defiance gave way at the last second when Esch’s mouth descended on his, and he parted it for him, _only_ parting. Nothing more, no response to Esch’s flicking and nipping. The first two seconds of contact remained passive on his part as he pinched his lips together against Esch’s lightly intruding tongue, furrowing his brow.

The crowd had gone silent. Next to him, the girls held their breath, until one of them nearly choked on it.

“Omigod,” she quivered in a nearly fanatical whisper.

Her reaction was the only push Sascha needed to comply. Esch had discovered the inner exhibitionist in him after all. He closed his eyes and gave the crowd what they wanted, his cock hardening in his pants not at his own actions, but of how he imagined this girl observed him.

It was when he tilted his head and worked his jaw against Esch’s, letting him in, accompanying the act with a hand running up the side of Esch’s neck, that the tension in the crowd imploded, massively. Esch mirrored the movements.  As he deepened the kiss, the sound of screaming was so loud that Shy Sascha forgot what he was doing and relished it for a second, getting _just enough_ of that weird, forbidden satisfaction before Esch ended the kiss and pulled away, both of them snagging one last smack on each other’s bottom lips.

The applause and the heavy arousal of all was thick in the air around Sascha, and the last thing he thought of before taking a swig of whiskey that was handed to him by the guitarist was what Raymond would think if he was there, watching. What he would do, how he would react. He couldn’t get a picture in his head, and, he told himself, fuck it.  He’d sold his soul for the rest of the night.  It was worth it.

The cigarette he had taken from the girl had burned halfway down to the filter during his kiss with Esch.  He took a drag, leaned over in anticipation with the rest of the crowd and _collected._

And later on, when he realized that he cannot remember the excitement buzzing around the girls, he regretted the whole thing. He regretted it more when over the next few years, girls were making out and showing him their tits for free.

 

_/…In the Wall_


End file.
